Nick Carter
Killmaster
Circle of Scorpions
Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
One
It was exactly five-thirty when Nick Carter walked into the Oak Room of Manhattan's Plaza Hotel.
His date was for five o'clock, but she was still at the bar, waiting, an empty stool on either side of her.
She wore a green dress that had been cut from just enough material to cover the full curves of her body. As he approached, Carter noticed that her fiery red hair had been brushed into a theatrical kind of upsweep.
He smiled. The coiffure had been his suggestion.
Talon-tipped fingers were wrapped around a Manhattan.
"Hi." He brushed his lips across her cheek and then did the same to the back of her hand.
"Nick, I was beginning to wonder."
"Sorry I'm late. You know us tycoons."
Carter settled himself on the stool beside her as the bartender appeared in front of him with a wide grin on his face.
"The usual, sir?"
"Yeah," Carter said with a nod, and ten seconds later he was toasting the voluptuous redhead with a Chivas, neat except for a single cube.
"To us, Naomi."
"To another wonderful evening." She turned to him and smiled. Her generous mouth had a much too generous coat of brilliant lipstick. "Do you realize that it's been two whole weeks since we met, right here?"
"They've flown by," he replied in a husky whisper. "But more important than the past is the future… tonight."
"Well see," she purred, lashes fluttering.
Yeah, Carter thought, I can't wait much longer, and neither can David Hawk and AXE!
Just that morning, the head of America's supersecret service had called the Killmaster back to Washington for a briefing.
"How much longer, N3?"
"I think — I hope — tonight's the night. Is Garrett ready?"
"Ready and waiting. He's been cooling his heels in New York for a week."
Carter had felt a wave of heat pass over his eyes. He had been taking Naomi Bartinelli out every night for the past two weeks.
Object: Seduction, to put himself and Al Garrett — AXE's resident electronics and computer genius — inside her apartment.
"I'm doing my best, sir. The woman likes to play hard-to-get."
Hawk had smiled. "According to your file, Nick, it usually doesn't take more than three evenings, four at the most."
Carter allowed his lips to form a smile. "Not every woman is in such a tricky business, sir. I've got to get her confidence — make her think that it's only her many charms that I'm after."
Now, looking at those charms encased in the skintight, silky dress, Carter emitted a low chuckle.
"What's so funny?"
"Just thinking how lovely and… desirable you look," he replied casually, warmly. "Ready for another drink?"
She upended the glass between her crimson lips. "Now I am."
Carter crooked a finger and the bartender was back, still grinning.
"Two more," Carter said.
They both fell silent as they watched the bartender scurry to mix the drinks. When he returned, their legs touched as they reached for them.
The electricity was immediate.
"What shall it be, Naomi? Dinner? Or should we just skip to the dessert?"
"Let's have dinner first." She smiled. There was a slight space between her incisors that marred an otherwise beautiful set of teeth. "I'm starved.
"So am I," he grinned, "but not for dinner."
"I told you, Nick," she said, her soft brown eyes sparkling from the drinks. "I like to be seduced. And seduction starts with dinner."
"Okay. Here?"
"How about someplace more romantic?"
"How about a little French place on the East Side? The food's great, the waiters do everything but shine your shoes, and the candlelight is so romantic you can't see who you're eating with unless you smile."
She glanced down at the dress. "Do you think I'm dressed well enough?"
"You look nice enough to go anyplace," he replied, waiting for a bolt of lightning to come through the ceiling for telling such a lie.
She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Well, if you say so."
Carter sipped his second drink slowly, watching her. He tried not to let his gaze linger too long at her neckline, where an interesting battle of containment ensued every time she breathed in and lifted the glass to her lips at the same time.
He decided it to be a true test of his imagination to picture what she would look like if she were sitting there with her breasts completely liberated.
She finished her drink and touched his arm. "I'm ready to go anytime you are."
The restaurant was small, cozy, and as dim as Carter had remembered. It was owned by a Swede with an Italian wife, but they did have a French chef.
Nothing had changed since the last time Carter had dined there except the prices. They had tripled.
There were the same red velvet drapes covering the walls, the same copies of paintings from the Louvre in ornate gold frames, and the same omnipresent waiters.
Even before Carter's eyes could become accustomed to the subdued lighting, Naomi Bartinelli's presence stood out in the room as though a spotlight were being played on her. As the maître d' seated them opposite one another at one of the more secluded and intimate tables, he could see the woman as one would see a torch on a dark night. Her flaming red hair piled high on the top of her head was like a beacon, and the bright green dress against her white skin stood out in contrast with the basic red decor of the room.
"Would you care to order drinks, sir?" the man asked in a hushed voice that was in keeping with the general tone of the room.
Carter ordered, and when the drinks came he made an elaborate production of ordering dinner in fluent French.
Naomi Bartinelli was impressed. She was supposed to be.
"I didn't know you spoke French."
"Ah, my dear, there are many things I do that you do not know about. I have a lot of business in France, as well as in several other countries."
She sighed and sipped her drink. "I contact people in France, Germany, and Spain all the time, but I never get to go there."
"Oh? Just what kind of business are you in? You've never mentioned it."
She shrugged. "I play with computers. I… well, let's just say I relay things."
"Is your office here in the city?"
She nodded. "I work out of my apartment. It's more convenient, and…"
"And…?"
"Nothing," she said, again shrugging her shoulders as a cloud passed across her eyes.
Carter didn't push it. He knew exactly what she did, who she did it for, and why she worked out of her apartment; it was more private.
And privacy, for both Naomi and her clients, was very important.
Her clients included gunrunners and smugglers, and underworld lawyers who wanted to stash or launder money abroad. She handled contracts for anything from a hit to a hijack abroad, or something simple like a message between shady friends who didn't want to use conventional — and tapable — means of communication.
For instance, if a terrorist group wanted to purchase a few hundred rifles, they would look up a broker. The broker would put the word out via Naomi's computer to the world's arms thieves. An available list would come back, and she would relay it.
If a deal were arranged, Naomi could also set up the buy and the place of delivery, and, by using certain codes, insure that the two parties could make the exchange in safety.
It was a neat little operation, requiring a very bright brain in computer systems and a knowledge of worldwide crime to set up.
For all of her lack of taste and class, Naomi Bartinelli did have such a brain. It was only after weeks of probing that AXE had found her Achilles' heel.